


The Winter Prince

by VendelynSilverhawk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Hawkguy and other funny nicknames, Protective Steve Rogers, Red Room, SHIELD Academy, This was supposed to be happy and now it kindof isn't, everyone also likes to dance, everyone's got secrets, liberal use of Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VendelynSilverhawk/pseuds/VendelynSilverhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Natasha finally got into the Kirov ballet in St. Petersburg, she thought she would finally have the normal life she wanted. Then the american arrived, and all of her secrets came crawling back for her. </p>
<p>or</p>
<p>"James  was the only male allowed into the program who was not Russian by birth or blood, the first foreign dancer in its history, in fact, and that had ruffled more than a few feathers among the school’s students and faculty. But the Dean of Admissions, Pavel Agapov, was adamant that the school accept the American and ultimately his persistence won out. James Buchannan Barnes was officially a member of the Kirov Ballet, home at the Mariinsky Theatre.<br/>In the early days Natalia did not see much of him, as she was in charge of the school’s experimental children’s program. When she wasn’t teaching six- and seven-year-olds how to dance she was in training with the other dancers who actually worked for the school instead of- or while- studying there. There were few lines between student, faculty, and troupe, and many were at least two of the three. In this way the school survived, and Natalia took little note of the American. <br/>	Until she saw him dance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Prince

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a completely non-super AU.   
> I failed completely. 
> 
> Disclaimer: my knowledge of ballet is limited to a few documentaries, classes when I was little, and use of the NY Ballet’s workout routine for a few months. Also, the internet, but I’m taking incredible artistic liberties with Russia’s Kirov (now simply Mariinsky) ballet troupe and also with the actual rules of ballet troupes, so basically don’t take anything in this fic for fact and if you’re an actual ballerina, I apologize.

James was the only male allowed into the program who was not Russian by birth or blood, the first foreign dancer in its history, in fact, and that had ruffled more than a few feathers among the school’s students and faculty. But the Dean of Admissions, Pavel Agapov, was adamant that the school accept the American and ultimately his persistence won out. James Buchannan Barnes was officially a member of the Kirov Ballet, home at the Mariinsky Theatre.

In the early days Natalia did not see much of him, as she was in charge of the school’s experimental children’s program. When she wasn’t teaching six- and seven-year-olds how to dance she was in training with the other dancers who actually worked for the school instead of- or while- studying there. There were few lines between student, faculty, and troupe, and many were at least two of the three. In this way the school survived, and Natalia took little note of the American.

                Until she saw him dance.

                Each student, at the end of their first semester at the school, had to choreograph and perform a single showcase dance for the troupe and faculty. It was both an evaluation of their progress and an informal audition for the troupe; if they were good enough, sometimes students would be invited to join after their first semester showcase, and they would continue to take classes in addition to training with the others. More often than not the students were put down for another semester of classes and reevaluated at the end of the year. In the Kirov, you were always auditioning.

                No student had ever been asked to completely quite the school to join the troupe full-time after a single semester. No one but her, that was.  

                As the faculty filtered into their seats in the massive theatre, Natalia could hear the softly murmured doubts and bets and expectations. The American was apparently very private, and while his teachers sang his praises and his classmates attested to the fact that he deserved to  be there, no one else had watched him do so much as a plié all semester. Her program crinkled in her hands but to Natalia all the names in red blurred into one.

                “I am telling you, he is wasted in the classes,” a woman murmured behind her. Natalia leaned back inconspicuously to better hear what Yeva Dementyev was saying.

                “He works just as hard as the other students, but he is a natural- the troupe could have used him months ago when Aleksei was out of commission,” Yeva pressed. Natalia perked up with interest- Yeva was not one to compliment lightly.

                “We cannot just allow anyone into the Troupe, Yevochka, you know that,” Daniil rumbled, but Natalia could hear the give in his voice. He was taking Yeva—and the American- seriously. A rare thing for the troupe’s head composer and choreographer.

                “Mark my words, you’ll wish you had a time machine once you see him perform.”

                “That is high praise coming from you.”

                “Which should tell you something about this man. I am not prone to exaggeration.”

                “You don’t need to tell me that.”

                The conversation broke off with Daniil’s growling laugh as the lights began to dim, and Natalia pushed herself forward in her seat. The American was first.

                Yeva had not pushed enough. It was clear as soon as the curtains opened and the music began- a sparse piano melody with no other accompaniment- that James was unlike any dancer the school had seen. He had a presence like thunder but as he moved there was an almost eerie silence wrapped around him that only the piano could reach.

                He wore nothing but slim black pants, no shirt, no dance shoes or other adornment, and his dark, waving hair was pulled back to better expose his face.

                Natalia felt her breath stutter in her throat.

                Facials were 40% of the battle for all dancers, exposing appropriate emotions so that the dance could come naturally to life. Otherwise the dancer was completely isolated on the stage, a wind-up automaton that alienated the audience and defeated the purpose of dancing at all, technical perfection aside. James did not let a sliver of emotion onto his face, unless ice was counted, in which case he could have frozen the whole room with a single look.

                _The Winter Soldier_ he called his piece. It was an appropriate name, the literary reference not lost on her.

                As he tracked his way across the stage with all the prowling grace of a snow cat, his face chilled the performance, but it did not kill it. Instead, it brought it to life in ways Natalia had not imagined it could. His face was so blank it was easy to get lost in it, devoid of even the telltale furrow of concentration that usually impeded expression on stage. But in the emptiness of his eyes, which were as closed off as steel gates, and the set of his mouth which could have kissed the life from someone, in tandem with the piano and the almost fluidly robotic movement, the life of the dance was found in a longing that stuck Natalia to the bone.

                The choreography was not groundbreaking, but it told a clear tale- that of a man undone, an empty slate. It sent a shiver down Natalia’s spine as an old phrase came to her unbidden.

                _“Tabula Rasa,” the short German man grinned, hand clenching on her jaw. “That is what you will be; our blank slate.”_

                And then, deeper down, some part of her read the way he reached out to the audience with a flicker of longing in his eyes before invisible hands pulled him back, forcing him into a halting imitation of an arabesque raise that was impressive even by the standards of the most flexible ballerina. The piano hit its lowest note, reverberating throughout the theatre. James fell in on himself and froze in the position of a man pulling a trigger.

_Murderer._

                And then, “ _It takes one to know one, Talyusha_.”

                The lights went dark, and James rose still in character, a puppet as he walked stiffly back into the wings.

Natalia reminded herself to breathe.

 

The next dancers were good- otherwise they wouldn’t have been there- but none of them had the same conviction or commanding presence as James, and so they passed out of Natalia’s mind easily. Only one other caught her eye- Yelena Belova, one of their youngest students at only seventeen, her blonde hair whipping behind her as she pranced across the stage to resonating string accompaniment. The troupe generally didn’t accept dancers before they were nineteen, though. Natalia guessed she would be kept on for two more years and given automatic troupe status after her birthday.

                All through the showcases the emptiness in James’ eyes haunted her, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that rose in the pit of her stomach when she wondered what kind of person was capable of making such an expression.

                Of course, she had to remind herself that she was one of those people. She had not earned the nickname “Black Widow,” for nothing. But she had destroyed herself to reach that part of her, to get where she was because natural grace could only get her so far. Sometimes she wondered if it had all been worth it, and the thought of James doing something similar forced her chest into a painful tightness.

                No, there were no others like her.

                When the theatre lights finally came up for good and the audience rose, musicians in the pit packing up their instruments, Natalia slipped out before anyone could call her over. She could already see the Troupe’s top tier gathering at one of the lobby doors to talk about the “New Blood,” but she didn’t feel like such discussions. James’ dance had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

                _It was me, it was me_ , her bones seemed to whisper, remembering the hollow places with sharp pangs to her stomach. Even though it was years ago and the shadows that wound between her ribs could no longer reach her mind.

                _How could he know me?_

                Simple answer, he couldn’t. That dance was all him, it just scared her because those eyes just as easily could have been hers, staring emptily from a stage.

                _Were_ her eyes. 

                _Like calls to like_.

                She got coffee at her favorite café, _Esspresso i Mysh'yaka_ , holding the steaming cup in her hands and watching cars push past in the snowy streets, people trailing jackets and scarves and huddled together even though the fall winds had given up today. Somehow she couldn’t taste the coffee, or even feel its warmth between her gloves. Autumn in Russia was all-consuming, and in St. Petersburg it sapped every ounce of warmth it could get. Greedy and insatiable in its hunger.

                The shop was heated but the cold had set itself in her blood and it wasn’t going away. Natalia rose, shrugging on her jacket and winding her bright red scarf tight around her neck. When the coffee _thumped_ into the trashcan she could feel its heaviness persist in her stomach, a weighty thing that made her feel sluggish and slow as she pushed out into the cold.

                Troupe listings would be out tomorrow in the main atrium of the school.

                That night she spread her hands flat along the plane between her stomach and hips, traced the curve of her waist where years ago there had been nothing but jutting bone. Now she couldn’t see her ribs unless she stretched high and sucked in her breath, and even as the skin was pulled tight she couldn’t catch a glimpse of her heart. Before, she could have reached through her chest and touched it, squeezed it into the shape her instructors demanded because she could not afford to not be perfect.

She fell asleep to the swinging music of Shostakovich and her cat purring at her back, her small body stretched beneath the covers, red hair fanning out behind her.

 

“And one, two, three- raise!” Yeva commanded, her high voice and banging stick inspiring even the most incorrigible dancers to comply.

                45 degrees.

                90 degrees.

                Arabesque raise one.

                A pleasant burn settled into Natalia as the exercise persisted, a humming energy beneath her skin that made her want to move to the point of breaking. It had not always been her way- once upon a time she had been cold and precise by virtue of the technical perfection she had been taught to exercise in all things. She still was those things, but now it was a choice and when she wanted she could let small bits of warmth trickle out. To revel in this freedom was her daily church, a kind of self-expression even the towering cathedrals of St. Petersburg would not offer her, whatever her relationship with God.

                “And down!”

                Natalia’s leg lifted from the bar and lowered to the ground with all the grace of a feather wafting to pavement, her toes arching to a delicate point against the smooth wood of the studio floor.

                “To pliés!”

                The regime continued.

                By the end of the two-hour warm-up, a carefully constructed amalgam of different ballet poses meant to increase strength, flexibility, and stamina to prepare their bodies for days of hard training and sometimes rehearsal, Natalia had a slight sheen of sweat on the back of her neck. The cool water from her bottle soothed her muscles, sending a refreshing lightness throughout her body as Yeva called for them to line up by the bar again.

                This was by far the biggest studio space in the school, built to hold the entirety of the troupe- some 80 dancers at any given time- but currently it was used strictly by the top twenty to thirty dancers. Natalia’s toes slid across the smooth honey floorboards in gentle circles, fingers resting on the bar that ran the complete length of the mirrored wall. The other three sides were made of paneling similar to the floor. There were no windows in this carefully controlled environment, with its soundproof nature and temperature regulation, the long lights running overhead to illuminate the black and red of each dancer’s workout clothes. They were designed for as much freedom as possible- clinging shorts and sports bras for the women, the emblem of the troupe emblazoned in old Soviet red on the front of the shorts. They left very little to the imagination, the smoothly muscled bodies of the dancers put on display. From those whose peak condition meant they looked like matchsticks, thin blue veins prominent beneath skin like glass, to the most muscled of the troupe like Rodion’s large arms and Antonia’s rock-solid abdomen. Natasha herself was in the middle, her body refusing to shed its last few pounds of curve unless she starved herself, and here that was not an option. As long as she was light enough to carry, her relatively short stature making her ideal for lifts, she kept the curve.

                “Three announcements before we break off,” Yeva said, projecting her voice to reach every corner of the room. “First, welcome Comrade James to our troupe.”

                Yeva extended a hand to the end of the bar where James, hair once again pulled back in a messy bun, was standing with perfect form. Her lips curled around the word “Comrade,” as did most of the others’. It was an inside joke of the troupe, born of Yeva’s passion for Soviet history and the fact that the Kirov had been formed in the early days of the reign of the old Russian monarchy, only to come under fire during the Bolshevik revolution for being too imperial. It poked at the old thoughts of communism, and the Motherland at the height of her glory. It was also frequently said that Yeva ran the troupe like Trotsky oversaw the Red Guard, so Comrades they were.

                “He has proven himself worthy of this position, and we should all hope to see him work to keep it,” Yeva said, smiling still. It was a common threat, one that left James looking completely unruffled as he nodded in acknowledgement. His eyes were alive today, but Natalia still felt as though she saw their green/blue through a snowstorm. She looked away before he caught her staring.

                “Second, as you all know, our next production will be Tchaikovsky’s _Swan Lake_ , but the decision has been made to split the season and put on a new ballet choreographed and written by our very own Daniil.” Yeva’s eyes were glinting as she said this, and Natalia’s mind began to race. The troupe hadn’t done a double season in years; that they felt they had enough strong dancers now was a curiosity, to say the least. “It is called _The Winter Prince_ , and auditions will be held directly after those for _Swan Lake_. Casting will be announced the following week for both productions.”

                Natalia had to keep herself from tapping her fingers impatiently against the bar, stilling her circling toes.

                Yeva drew herself up, leaning on her cane at a jaunty angle that reminded them all that she may have been approaching fifty but she was still as lively and spry as the rest of them. She reached up to brush a strand of salt-and-pepper hair that fought its way out of its controlled braid out of her face.

                “Lastly, the touring troupe will be returning in three days to hold rotating auditions, so prepare for a new assignment should you choose to join them at the end of the season. Alright, that’s all the news for today- enough time has been wasted talking. As soon as my mouth stops moving you will partner up and find your space- today is all about chemistry, trust, and lifts. Romanova, until Aleksei returns to us you will pair with James.”

                Natalia’s heart gave one desperate, wild jerk before she commanded her body to move. She crossed the bar as bodies started to fan out across the room, tracking it to the end where James was already coming towards her. It was only standing right in front of him that Natalia realized that he was probably a good eight inches taller than her, and the ridiculous amount of chiseled muscle on his chest and roping shoulders only made him seem larger. It was like he had been carved out of marble with perfect regard for ratios, not a hulk but not small, either, not like Aleksei’s lean muscle and steel-rod arms.

                “Natalia,” she said, pushing aside from split-second appraisal of his body in order to meet his snowstorm eyes.

                “James,” he supplied, a slight, unidentifiable accent present when he said the distinctly American name. It was almost a drawl, and she tried suddenly not to think of this tanned, dark-haired stranger saying her name in a similar fashion.

                “My usual spot is over here,” Natalia said, waving him towards a back corner that she normally inhabited with Aleksei. He followed with the same treading grace she’d seen him use on stage, and wondered how someone could dance such a tortured piece and still walk with some sort of confidence. This man was more of an anomaly than she was comfortable with, she whose business had become to know things, having spent too many tears in ignorance.

                They faced each other in the corner, a good eight feet of empty space around them, and James looked at her expectantly.

                “We’ve been doing solo work for the past weeks, but I know _Swan Lake_ has a lot of complicated partner work,” she began, watching the way his face betrayed northing but polite interest. “I don’t know about this new production, but I’m guessing something similar applies, so today we need to go over lifting and trust.”

                James nodded.

                “I’ve been in a few variations of _Swan Lake_ before, so I know the footwork,” he said. Natalia bit the inside of her cheek, making sure a mask was firmly in place. “Do you know how long we’ll be partners?”

                It was a question she had been expecting, since it would dictate their main area of focus- trust, or lift. She shook her head, motioning for James to get into position.

                “Aleksei’s bone wasn’t set properly the first time, so he could be back in time for auditions, but he might not be. For now we should assume it’s permanent.”

                “Lift, then trust?” he asked, and she nodded. He knelt down as she backed up, knowing she could get enough momentum in the small space for James to lift her into the air.

                “I’m heavier than I look,” she warned, and could have sworn she saw his lips twitch up. The expression was gone as soon as it came, however, but his eyes looked lighter- like Natalia could see past the storm.

                “I’ll catch you,” was all he said.

                She ran.

 

What the doctors called a 5th Metatarsal Avulsion Fracture, Natalia and her comrades knew as Dancer’s Fracture- death for dancers, and a pain in more ways than one. When she had watched Aleksei come out of his leap in the training room she had seen what was going to happen a heartbeat before it did, and the strangled gasp that escaped his mouth as his foot twisted sent a jolt of pain through her. He had been rushed to their school infirmary, but when word came back that he needed a hospital Natalia had resigned herself to months of solo training. Now, six weeks later, Aleksei was finally able to walk again with crutches and a padded boot, but a mistake in the initial setting of the bone meant it would be another fourteen weeks until he could dance again. Almost four months out of commission, and no way to audition for either of the approaching season’s productions.

                Natalia knew he was going out of his mind sitting at his flat or with the Troupe’s junior dancers to help Balakirev teach. They had been paired for the past three seasons because Yeva praised their chemistry so highly- she _knew_ him, just as he knew her.

                Or thought he did. He knew the Black Widow, the ballerina who had fought her way up the ranks of the Kirov and clawed through other dancers to earn a spot on the Ballet Russe for their European tour when she was just eighteen. He looked at her and saw the shadow of a legend recruited by the Kirov straight to the troupe when they saw her showcase- the woman who could put on a thousand different masks for a dance and at the end of the day not one of them would hold the truth of any of the short twenty-six years of her life.

                She held the broken pieces of herself close to her heart to keep them from cutting others because she was tired of collateral damage. She grew used to walking over broken glass whenever she searched her memories. Dancing was freedom, discipline, flight; it had not always been so. Once it had been a cover for a monster Aleksei could not see in her eyes or the blood on her hands, her pointe shoes.

                When they were paired she had few friends, appreciated the easy camaraderie of the Troupe but did not search for deeper connections. Then she grew used to his velvet kisses on her throat, her lips, the insides of her thighs, the way they moved together in the studio like two matching pieces of clockwork, and realized that maybe a partner could be worth the effort and trust.  

 

James was wiping down, a towel draped across the back of his neck as he pulled on jeans, long hair flopping in his face.

                “What is it?” Natalia asked, leaning against the dressing room wall. James didn’t stop dressing, fastening the dark studded belt with both hands.

                “You know, there’s a sign that says ‘Men only’ outside,” he said.

                “It’s not real,” she said, and the hand that went to pull the towel off paused. Natalia could see the way his adam’s apple jumped, and her eyes tracked up his left arm to the ring of scar tissue just above his shoulder. She hadn’t noticed it until she was up close to him in the training room, but when she was running at him she’d gotten a clear look at it. The skin was pale and ridged, like a seam pulled too tight or someone did a poor job sewing a wound, the ugly ridge of flesh practically glowing in the light like the subtle brown of his hair and the way the strands looked gold if he tilted his head the right way. Then he had caught her, lifting her above him with his palms and fingers pressed into her hips. Except one of those hands had been impossibly strong, cold and hard against her skin. She hadn’t asked then, because they were training, but her she knew she had all the time in the world. As soon as someone saw Natalia Romanova slip into the men’s dressing room, it was off-limits, even to those of the appropriate gender.

                “It does the same job, that’s all that matters,” James said at length, turning to face her with his chest bare, dark eyes glowering. The expression looked wrong on him, Natalia realized, the way the vacancy on his face when he’d done his showcase was wrong.

                Rolling away from the wall, arms crossed and hips cocked to the side, Natalia let one eyebrow rise delicately. It had the desired effect. James snorted and turned away, grabbing the black turtleneck hanging on a nearby hook.

                “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he said, tugging it over his head and covering the scar.

                “Yes, you are,” Natalia insisted, and he frowned. “We’re going to be training partners for at least the next four months. You’re new- I need to be able to trust you.”

                This time he face was practically a riot of emotion, compared to his earlier blankness. Confusion, disbelief, amusement flitted across his handsome features in equal measure.

                “That’s hilarious, coming from you,” he said, and Natalia’s teeth gritted. “I’ve heard about you- you’re ruthless, a perfectionist. You don’t share your tricks and you don’t trust people- you don’t even socialize with the others.”

                She hadn’t considered that he may have been watching her as carefully as she had watched him, and the surprise was both pleasant and unwelcome.

                Aleksei had been content not to see past her façade, it was what made working with him easy, and the decision to stop sleeping with him even easier. Apparently James had an American’s dual hypocrisy in the realm of secrets, even if he spoke nearly flawless Russian.

                “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she said before she could stop herself, and raised her chin defiantly. James froze, eyes narrowing.

                “Why?” was all he asked, a murmur that floated easily between her ribs. That was the real question, wasn’t it.

                “Because you’re good, and we have to rely on each other.”

                A lie. She had made sure four years ago that she would never need anyone again.

                But he took the lie anyway, and tugged off the turtle neck, angling the scar towards her. Very gently he peeled at the edge of the skin on his arm just beyond the scar. When it came away, Natalia had to shut down her expression before she let her horror show. James didn’t look at her the entire time he pulled the skin away, until he was left with a flesh-colored sleeve in one hand and the whole of his left arm and shoulder exposed.

                The scar was still there, but Natalia finally realized the reason for its existence when she saw the glinting metal fused to his skin, the shifting, shiny plated that allowed his arm a full range of movement and even mimicked his muscle tone. On the shoulder, just barely painting onto the metal, was the logo for Stark Industries, an American ex-weapons’ company.

                “How?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

                “Afghanistan,” he said simply, finally meeting her eyes. His were as clear as a summer’s day. “IED. Got accepted to the Stark Industries’ veterans program for advanced prosthetics prototypes.”

                A soldier. He used to be a soldier.

                Natalia swallowed.

                “Ask me anything,” she said. His brow furrowed.

                “What?”

                “Your secret for mine. Whatever you want to know.”

                He looked thoughtful for a moment, before pulling back on his shirt and a pair of gloves that hid the metal from sight.

                “Why do you let them call you that?”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Black Widow. Why keep the name when it’s not true?”

                He said it like it was obvious, like her ruse was completely transparent. It scared her more than his first question.

                She had promised the truth but she couldn’t give him all of it, not this time, so she swallowed and tried to tell as much as she could.

                “Because it’s all that’s left of me,” she whispered. It was the most honest thing she’d ever said in her entire life, omission notwithstanding. His eyes were sad and a little too empathetic when they looked at her.

                “Who’s Natalia, then?”

                “A ghost.”

 

She and James never spoke so freely again. Neither during rehearsal nor after, and the few words they exchanged were always about what positions to take, what form to try first, how long they wanted to practice. It wasn’t that they were uncomfortable, but rather that they found a line somewhere between their pasts and wanted to keep as far away from it as possible while still dancing close as two people could. When she rose into a lift she trusted the strength of both his arms, the feel of his skin against her chest and stomach as she was lowered, toes touching the ground. But she did not trust him, truly, and she could read every time their gazes met that he did not trust her. Theirs was the tenuous waltz on a high wire, forced to believe in your partner’s abilities and nothing else.

                When she visited Aleksei after her class with the children he asked what it was like to work with the American who climbed the ranks so quickly.

                “No faster than I did,” she said softly, picking at the fuzz on the edge of her sleeve, downturned eyes watching Aleksei’s good foot tap against the side of her boot. The classroom had cleared out long ago, the 18-20-something students dispersing in a whirl of chatter about the upcoming auditions and preceding winter break. Now it was just the two of them, and he looked over at her with bright eyes lit with impatience.

                “So we have a Black Widower, perhaps?” he said, sly smile on his lips.

                “Don’t tease,” she said. _You have no idea the true meaning of that name_.

                Glancing at him she saw his hand move, but didn’t move herself. It paused a millimeter away from her dark pants and came to rest on his own leg. He reclined in his chair, looking as content as a downed dancer could, and Natalia visibly relaxed.

                “I’m serious,” he mused. “I hear his showcase could have frozen the theatre. Renata told me that he barely speaks, and he looks like he’s about to commit murder every time he goes into first position.”

                The description was eerily accurate, but it was lacking something that grated under Natalia’s skin.

                “I’ve never killed anyone,” she pointed out, realizing that part of the wrongness was the statement’s implied comparison of her to James.

                “Are you sure?” Aleksei gave her a sidelong glance. “Because I could believe-”

                “That’s enough, Aleksei.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass, and reinforced with a quiet promise of pain should he continue.

                Oh yes, she had killed, and even if she hadn’t she had committed enough atrocities against her own body to know that she was capable of it, and the line being drawn between her and James carried similar implications for him.

                “Don’t talk about him again.”

                Her former partner held up his hands in defeat, but Natalia could see the curiosity in his gaze. Maybe he thought it was harmless fun, yet she had had enough. Rumors were the last thing she needed and, judging by the dark circles under James’ eyes the last few weeks, they were the last thing he needed, too.

                Aleksei let his head drop back against the wall. Natalia studied his profile, wondering ifs he had missed kissing him, if her dancing suffered without his partnership. Where James’ face was round and strong, Aleksei’s was long, his eyes like chips of ice that darkened in concentration each time he took to the stage. There was a dusting of stubble on his lower face; combined with his scruffy hay-colored hair he looked like a drooping lion, too long kept from the hunt. If Alexei was a lion and she was a spider, then James was a bear.

                No, she decided as she tipped her head back, still looking at him but not really seeing. She didn’t miss him, and she hadn’t suffered. She had eight legs to lean on, after all.

                “I’d say it’s cute, you being so protective,” Aleksei told the ceiling. “But I don’t think it is, really.”

                She kicked his chair, and silence fell again. This time it was loaded with things unsaid.

                “Daniil is considering you for his new ballet, you know,” he said. “And by you I mean him, too.”

                Natalia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

                “Apparently you and your American make quite the captivating pair.”

                “He isn’t mine,” she pointed out. She wanted to kick him harder, but that would only aggravate his injury. “He isn’t anyone’s.”

                “Like I said,” he murmured, turning to look straight at her. She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. “Quite the pair.”

 

After training the next day Yeva pulled Natalia aside and complimented her form. She’d never been better, the normally severe teacher commented, and if she kept improving like this she would be chosen to head the touring troupe in no time. It was no secret that their “away” Prima ballerina, Anne Aplova, was only a year or two away from retiring permanently to the school, and that the faculty was looking for someone to replace her for the 2016 seasonal tour to North America.

                Natalia ducked her head and took the compliment like an eager, grateful ballerina should before ducking away, hands tight on the straps of her dance bag. On her way out of the studio she saw James lingering in the hall, staring blankly at the empty cast list for the _Winter Prince_ and _Swan Lake_. Auditions weren’t for another few weeks.

                It took her two seconds and the memory of how his hands had lingered on her naked waist after they demonstrated a sequence of _Swan Lake_ for the rest of the Troupe for her to make a decision. Angling toward him she crossed the empty hall, hiking up her bag higher on her shoulder and forcing herself not to wipe her sweaty hands on her troupe jacket.

                “Hey, stranger,” she said, and when he turned he didn’t look surprised to see her standing there, one hand balancing on her hip. “I don’t think staring at those is going to make your name appear. I think the point is to audition first.”

                “Ha ha,” he said, a spark of life entering his features as he mocked. Natalia felt something warm in her chest, had the sudden, errant thought that maybe she was a little better prepared to face the cold.

                “I thought Americans were supposed to have a sense of humor,” Natalia said.

                James made a decidedly not-murderous face, his lips forming a smirk as he crossed his arms. Suddenly he was practically lounging against the all, appraising her in a way that she didn’t find as uncomfortable as she probably should.

                “I thought we were all ‘Comrades’ here,” he countered, forming the word “Comrade” around a Russian accent that sounded like a James Bond villain- cartoonish and mildly offensive.

                “Well, _Comrade_ ,” she stressed it, even though she longed to curl her tongue around his true name, foreign and strong as the arm hidden by his jacket and gloves and its sleeve of fake skin. “Would you like to join me for coffee?”

                The crack in the cocky American mask was subtle, but Natalia saw the surprise beneath it. Even after weeks of partnering with him, James was still an enigma to her, and Natalia had had the disorienting thought that maybe this was what Aleksei had felt like partnering her. He hadn’t tried to hide his opinion of her and James’ similarity, as much as she denied that she and the robotic American had anything in common.

                She and James were as remote to each other as distant stars, caught in each other’s pull but never touching. When one fell the brilliance of their crossing was blinding. At least that’s what it felt like to her every time his hands splayed across her stomach or tightened on the inside of her thighs when she was in a side-life.

                She wondered if he felt it- if he felt anything. He was only human, but ever since his showcase she had seen the walls he put up around himself fall only in brief moments.

                Moments like now, when he was teetering on the edge of a “Yes” and needed a final push.

                “Unless you want to stare at that list a little more,” she gestured to the wall. “I’m sure it’ll crack eventually.”

                The walls were back, but the spark was still there as he pushed himself away from the wall. They headed down the hall together, the white light of the world outside the studio beckoning at the end.

                As they walked Natalia kept a respectable distance between them. Between strides James’ jacket sleeve rode up, the silver of his arm glinting in the hall light. Natalia’s brow furrowed and her hands dug deeper into her pockets.

                “No cover today?” she asked, glancing down at his arm pointedly. He shrugged and tugged down the sleeve.

                “It doesn’t feel right,” he muttered.

                “So you can… feel,” she said. James shrugged again. In the few weeks they’d known each other she’d never seen someone so noncommittal.

                “A little. Hot, cold, pressure.”

                “But the cover gets in the way?”

                He looked… not uncomfortable, but out of his element. Natalia wondered just how many people knew about the advanced prosthetic- the faculty, surely, but most likely none of the students or other Troupe dancers. James didn’t seem to have many friends, either.

                “Not exactly. It just feels wrong. Like I’m hiding.”

                Natalia felt an opportunity as they stepped into the atrium, the glass ceiling and rows of entrance doors letting the snow-dimmed sunlight filter down on them.

                “The wound will never go away, so what’s the point in keeping it a secret, right?” she murmured, gaze cast up at the snow and glass. “Even if it looks normal to everyone else, you always know that something is missing.”

                She swallowed, taking a breath to steady herself before looking over at him. He was looking at her with an almost painful intensity, mouth parted slightly like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. He was gripping his metal wrist and between his fingers she could see the metal shine.

                _It really is beautiful_ , she thought suddenly, almost dazedly.

                “Yeah,” he rasped, licking his lips. “It feels exactly like that.” He looked about to continue, but his mouth snapped shut as he thought better of it. Clearing his throat, “So, uh, coffee?”

                Natalia smiled softly and started walking again. She pushed open the doors, letting a gust of cold air wash over them in a flurry of snow. When she let out a breath it was white as the chill wandered down her throat. She glanced back at James, and saw the flush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

                “How familiar are you with establishments that _aren’t_ Starbucks?” she asked, and was gratified to see the flush spread further. He probably thought she hadn’t noticed the telltale mermaid logo on his coffee every morning. His Russian may have been nearly flawless, but he was still very American.

                He flipped her the finger with his metal hand, and she stuck her tongue out at him. The walk to the coffee shop was perhaps the most blissful Natalia had felt in her entire life.

 

“So what do I call you?” he asked, swirling the pitch depths of his coffee and glancing across the table.

                “Hm?” Natalia had slipped into people watching, eyes tracking all of the hustle and bustle just beyond the windows. When she looked back over at him he had a small smile on his face, probably the most sincere expression he’d ever offered her. It was like he’d warmed the farther from the school they got, and this little glimpse of happiness sat more naturally on his face than any other. His lips looked more kissable than they had any right to be, too, but that didn’t stop Natalia from enjoying the view.

                “If Natalia is a ghost, and Black Widow is a misnomer, what do I call you?” he repeated. Natalia took a slow sip of her latte- she liked her coffee sweet and her vodka burning.

                Natalia didn’t think about her answer nearly as long as she should have. For once, it felt ok to take a risk.

                “Natasha,” she said. “You can call me Natasha.”

                His head cocked to the side curiously; he was no longer swirling his drink.

                “An Anglicization?” he asked.

                “It’s better than Natushka,” she explained. _Or Talyusha_. He nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced. “You don’t have nicknames in America?”

                He made another face at her and she knew she should probably stop- she’d visited America before, knew better than this. Just was just having too much fun. She’d never gotten to really tease someone before, and his happy faces were too enjoyable.

                “I do, I just… don’t use ‘em,” he muttered, and Natasha could see him withdraw before her eyes.

                “Wong place?” she asked softly.

                The look he gave her was laced with implacable longing and she thought of his showcase piece. _The Winter Soldier_.

                “Wong people.”

                “Oh.”

                They fell into silence again, sipping their coffee and watching pedestrians, listening to the chatter and clatter of the shop that moved around them. At length Natalia decided that even though it was a comfortable silence, the point of coffee wasn’t actually just to sit and have coffee. And since she didn’t have anything to talk about aside from work…

                “What would they call you? If the right people were here,” she asked.

                “You really don’t wanna hear about home,” he assured her, but she leaned forward across the table anyway.

                “Yes, I really do,” she said. “Come on, an American vet? How’d you end up in the Russian ballet?”

                He let out a long stream of air and leaned back on his chair, throwing an arm over the back. When he smiled it was laced with nostalgia. This was the first time she’d ever seen him truly relaxed.

                “People call me Bucky,” he admitted, and seemed to brace himself for a comment about ridiculous Americans. When it didn’t come, Natalia offered him a small smile. “Home is Brooklyn, New York, and I’ve got a friend there. He’s a real punk, Steve- all skinny limbs and a temper the size of the Chrysler. He’s probably getting into all sorts of trouble without me.”

                “He sounds like a good friend,” Natasha said, ignoring her own twinge of envy. James had someone at home who cared about him, if they were a few continents away from each other. All Natasha had were work acquaintances and a cat.

                “He’s the best,” James said, the fondness evident in his voice. “Never poked fun about me dancing, either, even when I told him I was leaving him for Mother Russia.”

                Natasha gave him a look that clearly said “Keep talking” but he shook his head.

                “I don’t know why I’m saying this. I don’t even know if I trust you,” he said, but there wasn’t any malice in it. He was just stating the facts of their partnership thus far.

                “That’s my line.”

                “Not this time.” He winked and she caught another glimpse of the roguish Brooklyn boy. She wondered darkly what had happened to make that person the remote ballerina she trained with every day, if it was just the war, or something more. “Your turn to share.”

                “Trust me, there’s nothing to tell.”

                “That means there’s something,” he pressed. Natasha tightened her grip on the cup. How far was she willing to let this go?

                “I’ve been a dancer my whole life”- part of the truth, at least- “I joined the troupe when I was twenty-two. I have a cat named Vdova.”

                “That’s it?”

                “All the important stuff,” she said, and she could tell he didn’t believe her but he would let it slide. “I want to hear more about your friend in Brooklyn.”

                “Alright. He’s an artist, working on some pretty big pieces when he’s not at protests or helping old ladies cross the street. Asthmatic, too- it’s why he never-” James paused, Adam’s apple leaping as though he had said too much. Natasha’s eyes flicked to the metal hand squeezing his cup just a little too tightly.

                “Why he never enlisted?” she said softly. James nodded and swallowed. He took a deep breath.

                “He wanted too, bad, but he’s not just asthmatic. Back when we shared a place I was terrified to let him step out of the front door in case he was bowled over the a breeze. He’s the most patriotic guy you’ll ever meet, but not in a Fourth of July kind of way. He really believes in the good in the world, in helping people. When he heard that good men were going to war, well,” he shrugged uselessly. “Of course he didn’t want to sit back and do nothing.”

                “He stayed… and you went.”

                “Yeah.”

                Natasha blinked slowly, absorbing the moment and all it revealed. Flashbacks from her own war rose up in her mind, but they beat uselessly against the wall she had built years ago to keep them at bay.

                James had gone through hell, but he had a friend who would have gladly gone through it with him. She wondered what it would be like to have a friend.

 

It was the first of many post-work coffee dates, which turned into post-rehearsal dinner dates after they were cast as the leads in _The Winter Prince_. The more she got to know him, the more open James was, and she learned to see the man behind the almost aggressively determined robot that inhabited his body while they danced. Every once and a while she would hear the rumors that the other dancers passed around, about how intimidating he was, and once Alyona even jokingly asked Natasha what demon he’d sold his soul to for his ability to move the way he did. She didn’t know what possessed her to say it, but Natasha had merely deadpanned and said “Me,” before sauntering away to where James was waiting in the atrium. The snow outside greeted them like old friends, but Natasha’s hand in his was warm.

                 The first night they were together he asked about her scars, metal hand brushing over each as his flesh and blood fingers wound through her hair. There was a strange delicacy about him when he held her against the bed, her legs wrapped around his waist and his shoulders towering over her, that was so different from what she had known before.

But that didn't mean he would get the truth. He deserved better, so she craned her head back to bare her collarbone to his lips and let her eyes slide closed. She had each and every lie etched onto her body memorized.

Fingers curled around the bullet wound in her hip- a jealous boyfriend. His eyes were curious roving over the three white lines on her chest: a mugging gone wrong. Unhappy childhood, trigger-happy robber, another relationship gone wrong, car crash when she first got her license. She painted the picture of an unfortunately disaster-prone life and he never questioned it, except to comment on her taste in men. She replied by yanking him down to her mouth, hands tangling in his hair and skittering down his back in a way that made him arch and moan.

"Why do you think I like you so much?" she teased, then paused when she discovered the serious of raised scars on his right shoulder. "What's this?"

"Shrapnel," he murmured against her skin. Her fingers continued to explore- bullet wound in the calf, burn on his lower back that would have been barely noticeable except to someone like her. His war had taken more than an arm, and he didn't elaborate any more than she had.

"I would never hurt you," he said, breath hot on her neck as he exhaled deeply. "You know that, right?"

                “I know,” she said, and didn’t meet his eyes.

 

The moonlight that trickled through his window illuminated their entwined bodies, tracing silver across their scars and turning his arm into a fallen star. Natasha let her head droop to the side on the pillow facing away from him, tracking her outstretched arm to where it hung carelessly off the bed. James' breathing was heavy beside her, his arm equally so around her naked waist.

For a moment she could almost imagine that they were normal, that they were not a wounded soldier and ex-assassin and that her secrets weren't the thing that was keeping her from telling him the same thing.

_I will never hurt you_ , she wanted to whisper, but she had had enough of unnecessary lies.

A deep breath escaped the cage of her lips. How could two people like them ever look beautiful on a stage? Ever dance with bodies long past broken?

Maybe because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

It was the first time she'd slept soundly since his showcase.

 

They never talked about the war again. Not how long he was there or what he’d done, who he’d served with, no more details about the arm. And Natasha couldn’t blame him, considering how little information she offered of herself- I have a cat, dancing is my life, I like Shostakovich, I’ve been doing it since I was young, I have scars, Black Widow isn’t the name of a ballerina it’s the alias of – _stop_.

                That was why she said nothing. Because she liked James, and he had his own demons, but she was willing to bet hers were too great to overlook.

                So she continued to say nothing, while asking him everything.

                She learned more about Steve, who apparently sent James letters the old-fashioned way because he liked the symbolism but wasn’t above skyping at 4am when he needed inspiration for a new picture. He told her a little about his other friends, but they were fellow servicemen so that conversation didn’t last long. Over movie night- _Anna Karenina_ because Natasha was so very Russian at times- James spoke pictures of Brooklyn for her, a neighborhood that had climbed high and wasn’t as poor as it used to be, his words hanging in the air until Natasha could see it, and briefly long for it. Never had she spoken of the Red Room, or St. Petersburg, or even her apartment or the Kirov studios with the same tone, never truly felt “at home” after a lifetime of movement. With James she finally knew what it was to stand still.

                Until she started running again.

 

Natasha slid down James’ chest, their breath mingling as he lowered her from the lift, one arm warm against her skin, the other cool metal slipping over the fabric of her costume. The applause that reached them through the thick red curtains was deafening, and enough to warrant the small, breathless smile both cracked at the same time. Then his arms were around her and her blood was still singing even though she was dead on her feet, the other dancers exchanging quick, exultant congratulations before they had to prepare for the final bows.

                “Natcheka!” Aleksei roared as he loped over, as light on his feet as he’d ever been. His injury had kept him from snagging a lead role in _Swan Lake_ , but it had healed in time for him to take a _corps de ballet_ role in _Winter Prince_ , which hadn’t seemed to dampen his spirits at all. It helped that he was guaranteed a lead in next season’s _Sleeping Beauty_.

                “Congratulations,” he said, giving her a quick hug before nodding to James. “I have a feeling this one will be quite popular in the next few seasons.”

                Natasha was in a good mood so she smiled at him, feeling her heart lift. In her life it was rare to have days like these, where everything went well, but today was one of those days and James had been right beside her. She glanced over at him and saw the excitement in his features, in the way he stood and the way he couldn’t quite force his lips into his usual monotone expression. Lifting his metal limb, she strung her fingers through his and kissed them gently.

                James was perfect, even sweaty and still glittering from the stage lights and makeup. No matter the arm or his penchant for brooding, the way he sometimes woke in a cold sweat clutching his metal arm until she reminded him how to breath- after that they hadn’t had many sleepovers, and he refused to explain but didn’t need to.

                Winter had been hard but living was harder and Natasha had promised herself weeks ago that she wasn’t going anywhere. During rehearsals for the show the director had caught sight of James’ naked arm in the locker room and liked it so much he asked James to use it for the show. After that James abandoned the sleeve completely, and Natasha took a certain amount of satisfaction in no longer watching him hide.

                As the ice thawed and spring set in, and temperatures approached something almost like warm, Natasha saw a side of James she hadn’t known existed during their brief coffee-shop flings. He cut his hair and shaved, threw snowballs at her on the way to work. He was like a child, the weightlessness he lent her practically giving her feet wings.

                Now here they were on opening night and the audience was roaring for them, the Winter Prince and his Summer Queen with hair like fire and a costume that trailed pieces of the sun.

                The music for final bows started up just beyond the curtains, and Natasha led James off the stage still holding his hand. In the wings they waited patiently while the ensemble took position, then the others in terms of role importance, until it was their turn. Natasha shot him a look charged with exhilaration before she broke from the wings, leaping to the middle of the stage as he followed at her heels. Still in character, she let him capture her in a sweeping embrace that lifted her off her feet, then both turned and bowed to the audience. The stage lights were almost blinding but as she ducked low Natasha could see through and into the gloom of the packed theatre.

                Her heart skipped a beat- _no_.

                Suddenly it was all Natasha could do not to rush off the stage and keep running, alternatively leap into the audience and claw out the eyes of the man who was staring right at her from the front row. When she rose nothing in her posture indicated that she had just locked eyes with a man who ruined children, or that her wall to keep the monsters back was buckling under the weight of his gaze. She smiled for the audience, and squeezed James’ hand, and backed away with perfect form as the curtain fell closed.

                She was still wearing her stage makeup when she burst from the back door of the theatre and started running.   


She paid the cabbie extra to ignore red lights, and when he finally stopped in front of her apartment she was out the door before the wheels stopped moving.

                Her hands were steady when she slid the key into the lock and turned it, pushing open her door cautiously. The entrance rug was undisturbed and Vdova was sitting out on the couch like normally, but Natasha still did a twice-over of every room before pulling the travel bag out of her closet. It was empty- after four years here she’d let herself get complacent, sure that the Red Room would finally leave her alone. There was no way she’d ever truly lost them.

                “We are going far away this time,” she muttered as she stuffed clothes into the bag, sparing the fluffy grey cat a look. As usual, Vdova looked unconcerned, and Natasha allowed her shoulders to relax a bit.

                Padding across the space to the bathroom, she stuffed her necessities into a bag and grabbed the gun whose resting place was behind the sink pipe, checking to make sure the clip was still full. A noise in the main room froze her. Breathing too loud in her own ears, Natasha forced her heart to slow and her finger to rest steadily above the trigger as she crept out of the bathroom. Back pressed against the hallway walls, she slid down, peering around the corner.

                A dark figure was standing in the middle of the living room, looking around, broad shoulders hunched beneath a black jacket. Her breath caught in her throat.

                _James?_

                The mere possibility that he was Red Room sent an unexpected lance of pain through her. She bit her lip and took a deep breath. There was no room for sentiment in survival.

                A flash of silver caught her eye. James was bending down to something on the floor, his metal fingers outstretched to-

                Vdova. The cat trotted over to James without hesitation, purring loudly as she rubbed against his entire hand, tail quivering in pleasure.

                “Hey kitty cat,” James murmured as he scratched behind her ears. “Where’s Natasha, hm?”

                She stepped out into the room, gun still aimed at the seam between metal and skin on his shoulder- a nonlethal shot.

                “Right here,” she said. James only looked mildly surprised at the gun being pointed at him, and he stood slowly with both hands raised. “What are you doing here?”

                “Making sure you’re alright,” he said, gesturing to the open bag on the couch. “I’m guessing the answer is ‘no’.”

                “You should go,” she said, trying to convey into those three words the consequences of not doing what she asked. Either he was deaf to nuance or he didn’t care, because he didn’t so much as twitch in the direction of the door.

                “Fine,” he said. “When do we leave?”

                She finally let the gun drop- Vdova trusted him, and nothing so far indicated that he was with _them_ \- and stalked across the room, shoving her toiletries in the bag.

                “You can’t come,” she said, already feeling his resistance.

                “Why not?” he demanded. “Too dangerous?”

                She’d noted all of the hidden weapons in his apartment ages ago, knew he could take care of himself, but his demons were nightmare and memory- hers were frighteningly real.

                “It isn’t any of your business,” she snapped. She headed back into her bedroom, rooting out her other pistol and knife collection. His metal fingers closed around her arm. It took all of her self-control not to drop him right there and when she turned to look into his eyes she knew he knew it.

                “ _You’re_ my business,” he pressed. It was a pretty sentiment, but not one she could afford.

                “You’ve killed people,” she said, and winced mentally at the shutters that fell across his eyes. “But I’ve done worse, for worse reasons than nationalism. Trust me, you don’t want to come with me.”

                He let go of her arm, but neither of them moved. She realized too late how close they were, lips inches away.

                “You don’t want my baggage,” she rasped. A rueful smile played on his lips as he shook his dead. _Khorosho_ , Americans were stubborn.

                “Says the woman’ who’s been carrying mine for the last six months,” he challenged, and she swallowed. Here’s where collecting other people’s secrets without divulging her own came back to haunt her. “I was a sniper, during the war. I killed civilians on orders and never asked why no real terrorists ever showed up. You aren’t the only one with a history, Natasha.”

                “Except mine isn’t _history_ ,” she snapped. “I’ve done unimaginable things, James, now tell me that I’m still a good person, that you want to come. I’m not like you.”

                Then, to her eternal surprise, he _laughed_. It was rasping and low and completely without humor, but he laughed and then he took her hands in his.

                “I’m not good, not by far, and don’t say you’re more trouble than you’re worth- that’s too big a lie, even for you.”

                She swallowed and ducked her head.

                “What should I say, then?” she glanced up at him and his face was grave.

                “That you’ve already got plane tickets?”

                An hour later both of their bags were packed and they were on their way to the airport, Vdova sitting in her carrier in Natasha’s lap. James had only asked her two more questions before they left for his apartment- where they were going, and how long she needed to disappear. She had only been able to answer one.

                “America,” she said as she booked their flight. He had been looking over her shoulder wordlessly, and when she asked for a flight to Denver he reached over and guided her hand to New York instead, murmuring, “Brooklyn’s pretty nice in summer.”

                She didn’t know why he would risk his friends like that, but maybe he had more connections than he let on.

                Always, always secrets between them. They had only ever been honest when they danced.

                Stepping up the ramp into the plane, she missed the stage and her pointe shoes fiercely. Who knew how long she would go without movement like that? Certainly she would never again dance for the Kirov, not after leaving with only an emailed letter of resignation the night after an opening show.

                “So, when I asked what I should call you, you gave me an _alias_ ,” James muttered, nodding to the ID Natasha was stowing in her jacket pocket for one Natasha Romanoff.

                “At least you won’t have any trouble keeping my cover now,” was all she said. Beneath them the plane shuddered and picked up speed, and Natasha could feel it begin to rise as the pressure pushed her into her seat. James’ hand reached out for hers, fingers gripping hers tightly as his other hand- the one that had gotten them in trouble with the metal detectors- gripped the arm rest with enough force to crack the plastic.

                “You don’t like flying?” she asked, brow furrowed when she saw how pale his face was. His eyes squeezed shut as they jerked into the air.

                “Remember when I said IED?” he gasped. “I lied. My jeep sort of fell off a cliff.”

                “Keep your eyes shut and take deep breaths,” Natasha ordered, squeezing his fingers back. He lost his arm when he _fell_ , and he’d let her drag him onto a plane. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and heard the slow exhale of his breath through his teeth.

                “Thank you,” she murmured.

 

It was dark, the gloom of the plane only interrupted by the occasional overhead reading light. All of the passengers in their section had already gone to sleep, pulling out headphones and neck pillows and sleep masks.

                Natasha and James were still wide awake. Her head was resting on his shoulder, eyes staring blankly at the seat in front of her as she talked in a nearly inaudible whisper, knowing James would listen.

                “He was in the front row… dark hair, brown eyes, a scar on his chin. He saw me, so I ran. I don’t know what they want- they haven’t tried to get at me in years.”

                “You knew you never lost them?” he asked, and she nodded, cheek rubbing against the fabric of his jacket.

                “Black Widow was my codename, when they still owned me. When it started to filter into my new community I knew it was their way of saying that I would never lose them, but I made sure killing me would be counterproductive for them before I left. If they wanted to kill me, they could have.”

                “The Red Room doesn’t like losing its toys, I guess,” James said, and he sounded impossibly tired. Natasha jerked up, staring at him with wide eyes. His expression was dark enough to crack glass, and when he spoke his voice was dripping acid. “After I got the arm, they approached me about freelancing for them. Said they could use a ‘man of my talents.’ I told them to fuck off, and they did, but I got the feeling that wouldn’t be the end of it. When you spooked in your apartment, I figured… what was the harm in a guess?”

                “Good guess,” she murmured, lowering herself back down next to him. So he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he wasn’t a good person. He was an efficient enough killer that the Red Room had actually tracked him down- and let him go. The thought that she wasn’t alone in her sins was comforting, but it also broke her heart.

                “Were you ever happy?” she asked, pushing back the sudden burning in her eyes. Now was not the time. “After?”

                “Sometimes,” he murmured. His thumb rubbed small circles into the palm of her hand, the motion oddly comforting. “With Steve. At baseball games, reunions with the guys… dancing with you.”

                There was something heavy in her chest.

                “What about you?”

                “I don’t have an After,” she said, and didn’t look to see his face. For her that wasn’t even a before. There was only the Room, and partial liberation.

                “Not yet.”

                She didn’t wake up until they touched down in Paris.

 

Steve was waiting for them. When they got off the plane. Natasha was wearing a “Paris, Je t’aime” t-shirt with jeans and a striped hoodie, boots with thick treads. Beside her on the escalator James shouldered both of their bags over a grey windbreaker and black jeans, a studded belt that clashed with his bright red converse. Even if he wasn’t assuming an alias- they were going to his home city, so there was little point- Natasha had insisted that they change clothes in Paris and get new phones. Within the two-hour layover Natalia Romanova no longer existed outside of her Kirov records, and Natasha Romanoff was visiting New York with her boyfriend. If anyone wanted to know.

                Truth be told she didn’t know what to call James now- she was both impressed and annoyed by how many relevant secrets he’d kept, and “boyfriend” didn’t’ seem to fit the bill for helping an ex-assassin flee the country with zero questions asked.

                Before she had the chance to ask what _he_ thought they were, however, they were stepping off the escalator and being hailed by an extremely tall blonde man who looked like he’d just sauntered out of a Kalvin Klein catalogue- seriously, his shoulder-waist ratio was probably scientifically perfect, and no one deserved to have such a face that looked painfully sincere. When he saw James his entire face lit up, like a starving man seeing food for the first time, or Icarus looking up at the sun. It only took a glance for her to confirm that James looked the same way, but his expression was laced with confusion.

                “Bucky!” Steve said- that had to be who it was, but hadn’t James reiterated that his best friend was a 90lb asthmatic? The man striding towards them looked like an ad for the perfect man.

                “Steve?” James gasped, and Natasha had to drag him out of the way of the people trying to exit the escalators because he was frozen in place.

                Steve looked sheepish. “Yeah, uh, sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’s kind of classified.”

                “‘Classified’,” James echoed, still staring at Steve like he was about to disappear. “Steve, I’ve only been gone a few months!”

                “Well it only happened a few weeks ago,” Steve said. “Look, I promise I’ll explain everything later. I’m still me.”

                “Yeah, I’ll believe that when you start coughing and wheezing,” James snorted, starting to look more at ease. Until Steve started looking sheepish again and his eyes narrowed. There was something almost comical about how unaware of his size Steve was, considering he had at least three inches on James.

                “Actually, about that…” Steve muttered. “The asthma’s sort of… gone.”

                Even Natasha blinked at that- asthma wasn’t just something that disappeared, and little skinny guys didn’t just magically become weight builders overnight.

                “When I got this”- Steve gestured to himself- “Everything else sort of went away. No asthma, no scoliosis-”

                “Wait, so you can see in color now?” James interrupted, and Steve’s entire face lit up.

                “Yep- I got an entire new set of pencils when I found out. Red and Green have never looked better-”

                “This is great,” Natasha said, stepping up next to James. “But we should probably carry this conversation elsewhere.”

                “Oh, hey!” Steve said, sticking out a hand. “Sorry, I’m Steve, Steve Rogers. I’m assuming you’re Bucky’s partner?”

                _Partner?_

                Steve must have seen her look, because he faltered slightly as they shook hands.

                “At the ballet troupe? When he called last night he said he was bringing a friend. You’re Natasha, right?”

                “Yes, Romanoff,” she smiled. “Sorry, I just- I didn’t know we were meeting you here. And whenever James has talked about you he’s made you seem…”

                “Smaller?” Steve laughed, returning her smile. “Like I said, I’ll explain everything. Let’s get a cab- I have dinner ready at home.”

                “‘Home?’” Natasha hissed when they headed out of the airport doors, grabbing James’ hand.

                He shrugged.

                “We technically still share an apartment, and I couldn’t just drop off the grid without at least visiting first. Steve’d have had a panic attack that would have been it for his heart.”

                “Well don’t you two make the perfect couple,” she muttered. James shot her a strange look.

                “Is the Black Widow… jealous?” he prodded.

                “Worried,” she said, casting a glance at Steve trying to hail a cab. “Less than twenty-four hours ago you learned that I’m an ex-Red Room assassin and your first instinct is to hide _at your best friend’s house_?”

                “Uh, yeah,” James said unapologetically. “Look, now that we’re here we can’t just leave. I have to figure out what ‘classified’ did to my best friend. Don’t worry, we can trust him.”

                “Can he trust me?”

                “He thinks you’re a ballerina, not a Soviet killing machine,” James reassured, but something else tugged at Natasha’s brain.

                “Does he know about you?” she asked. Steve had a cab.

                James’ face paled minutely. “About my almost-career as a mercenary? Hell no. All the other shit war brings with it? Yeah. He’s sort of the reason I’m not a puddle of PTSD drooling on the floor.”

                Natasha read the gratitude and love in his gaze like an open book.

                “He sounds like an amazing guy,” Natasha said. James squeezed her hand.

                “He’s the best. He’s why I started dancing again. In a way… he’s why I met you.”

                “What?”

                “When I wrote home to him talking about my new partner, this amazing redhead who could probably perform _Swan Lake_ in her sleep and understood what it was to be tired of hiding, he told me to stop wasting my words on him and, I quote, ‘Ask her to coffee already.’ Worst case scenario, I thought, she kills me. Best case, I get out with her number.”

                Then Steve was there and they were in the cab and he was talking excitedly about how James’ room was the same, he’d made pasta using their neighbor’s recipe- from what Natasha gathered she was an elderly Italian woman who was of the opinion that Tiny Steve was starving himself and had taught him how to cook twenty-seven different types of pasta while James was gone- and that he hadn’t used steroids or gotten involved in anything illegal to get his new body.

                It turned out the alternative was- in James’ eyes- much, much worse.

                “You _what_?” he exclaimed, looking livid. Steve lowered his fork.

                “They said-”

                “That there was a 10% fatality rate, Steve!” James yelled. “For Christ’s sakes, I’m gone for a few months and you volunteer for a government science experiment?!”

                “10%-“

                “Is too much!” James snapped. Natasha was glad that he wasn’t holding his glass with his metal hand, otherwise it would have shattered by now.  “Look, I know you hated bein’ the little guy, but this war is _over_ and-”

                “And you think that’s why I did this?” Steve looked shocked, and hurt, but James was scowling bitterly.

                “Yeah, cause you’ve got _nothing_ to prove,” he said. Steve’s blue eyes went dark, and Natasha realized why someone could look at him and see a man suited for power.

                “Look, I got a chance to help people, Buck, so what if it helped me in the process? It isn’t my fault they benched me-”

                “No, that’s a favor, Steve,” James fired back. “ _God_ , you got out of going to war, why are you so eager to get shot at?”

                “S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me a chance and I took it, Bucky,” Steve said, a note of finality in his voice. “Say what you want, but if they offer me the chance to go into the field, I’m taking that, too.” Then he stood, carried his plate over to the sink, and starting cleaning up from the meal, anger evident in his stiff shoulders.

                James slumped down in his seat and drew a hand across his face, looking twenty years older. Natasha felt a headache coming on- this was too much information, her old skill set was screaming for her to find a quiet place and analyze, analyze.

                “James?” she murmured softly, leaning towards him. When he looked up his eyes were dark and he shook his head gently.

                “I’m going for a walk. Help yourself to my room- I’ll take the couch,” he muttered, rising. Then he walked across the apartment into the living room and vanished out the front door.

                Leaving Natasha alone with Steve, aka “I volunteered for a secret government experiment and didn’t hesitate to tell my best friend and a virtual stranger about it.” Either he was very confident that they could be trusted, or he was just supremely naïve. Natasha couldn’t figure out which yet, just that she liked him.

                Because no one else would be eating any more- despite the pasta being ridiculously good- Natasha picked up her plate and James’ and joined Steve in the kitchen. He said nothing when she started to unload their dishwasher, learning her way around quickly and efficiently.

                Adapt to new environments.

                Adapt or die.

                “I’m sorry about all that,” Steve said, glancing over at her with those painfully earnest blue eyes. “I didn’t mean for you to arrive and have a bunch of international secrets dumped on you.”

                “I’m resilient,” she said, humming lightly in the back of her throat as she worked. She had a feeling, suddenly, that this was no longer a pit-stop on the way to anonymity.

                For better or for worse, this was _home._  

 

It was the second time she noticed him on her morning run that she knew something was wrong, trusting the cold voice in her gut instead of the logic that told her it was surely coincidence. This time he was in the same coffee line, rather than just across the park, daring to stand only two spaces away as she ordered.

                “Coffee, black,” he said when it was his turn. Natasha stood by the barista line and debated whether or not she should make a run for it. She couldn’t tell who he was from- it couldn’t be Red Room, he was too well-dressed, too old even though he was probably only 40, 45 at most. He also looked too harmless- if there was one fault of the Red Room it was that their people _looked_ dangerous, if only to people’s intuition. It had taken Natasha years to look innocent and carefree again, but she knew the monster coiled beneath was far from invisible. In the two weeks since arriving here that had become evident on a number of occasions.  

                “Double chocolaty-chip Frappuccino!” the barista called out. Natasha took a deep breath to keep herself from snatching it away and running.

                Always running.

                “Sweet tooth, huh?” It was _him_. Mr. Black Coffee, smiling at her like someone’s favorite uncle, the kind that spoiled all of the kids that weren’t his. “That stuff’ll kill you, you know.”

                “I could tell you the same,” she replied coolly. He shrugged, smiling softly.

                “I don’t think coffee is gonna be the thing to finally do me in.”

                Natasha narrowed her eyes and debated whether or not to just walk away, then decided against it. The conversation was already too loaded.

                “Natasha,” she said, extending a hand. He shook it, and his was a hand suited to a gun.

                “Phil. Don’t think about running, Ms. Romanova,” he murmured, still with that friendly smile that made it seem like a joke.

                “Whoever you work for, if you know that name you should reconsider whatever you’re about to do,” she warned.

                “Oh, I’m not going to do anything.”

                She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

                “I’m purely surveillance,” he said, as if it was no problem to _tell_ the object of the surveillance that she was being watched. “I’m actually in your corner, so I’d appreciate it if you not stab me.”

                Natasha shifted so her jacket further ballooned over the knife concealed at her hip.

                “I’m here to talk,” he said. Natasha turned and dumped her full coffee cup in the trash, ignoring him. “Talk” was not a word she was fond of, especially from agents of… something. Whoever “Phil on surveillance” worked for, she wanted no part of it.

                As she shoved open the Starbucks door it chimed gently above her, the cool September air rushed across her skin. It was a balm that reminded her of James’ metal fingers.

_James_.

                He was with Steve right now at the studio, or with Sam-From-The-VA who Natasha probably liked and trusted more than she should. James was probably operating under the belief that the Red Room would not find them and they were invisible. After all, wasn’t that what Natasha was best at? Hiding?

She wanted to stop but didn’t, and even though she knew Phil was following her she didn’t look back. Through the streets they walked, silent, until they reached the park.

                “Ready to talk?” Phil asked when she turned, back to a tree, arms crossed. He looked just as unruffled as he had in the coffee ship.

                “You have eyes on James and Steve,” she said. Normally she wouldn’t have given away her priorities so easily, but it wasn’t a question, really. Phil nodded. “Surveillance for who?”

                “S.H.I.E.L.D.”

                Her mouth must have twitched, because Phil nodded again, knowingly.

                “So you have heard of us.”

                “2006, Crimea.” _Steven Rogers, 2014._ “That was you,” she said. An old scar on her shoulder began to throb.

                “One of our operatives, yes. But I’m here to talk about you.”

                “No you aren’t,” she said.

                “Alright, you and your new roommates. We know the Red Room is looking for you- we’d like to make an offer.”

                Natasha instantly leaned away from him, hands going to her hips- easy access to her knife. Phil didn’t look the least bit wary, so either he was stupid, overconfident, or really, really good at his job.

                Natasha almost hoped it was the latter.

                When she said nothing, Phil sighed. “I know you know about our involvement with Steve Rogers’… transformation, but S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t specialize in human experimentation. We’re actually a global intelligence agency dedicated to keeping the planet safe and world relations peaceful. Among other things.”

                “And… what, you’re recruiting?” Natasha smirked. If this guy thought she would sign herself up for another lifetime of taking orders and not living a life he was borderline delusional.

                “Yes. Well, we’d like to, but if you say no- I was told you’re stubborn that way- we are by no means going to ignore it.”           

                “How nice, I actually get a choice in all this.”

                Phil didn’t look surprised at her attitude.

                “We don’t know as much about the Red Room as we would like to, but S.H.I.E.L.D. works on a volunteer basis only- it’s no one’s choice but yours, Miss Romanoff. However much or little you want to get involved is up to you,” he said, and Natasha could tell with a glance- he was telling the truth.

                Something cold unfurled in the pit of her stomach.

                “Up to me… and James, and Steve,” she said carefully. Phil nodded.

                “Of course. Their friend Sam, too- we could use more people like them.”

                “But why not just recruit Steve after your experiment worked?” Natasha said, before her brain could get the better of her. Phil smiled, a knowing look on his face, and the cold in Natasha’s stomach hardened.

                “He didn’t tell you everything, then?” Phil looked pleased. “We knew he was a risk for information dumping as soon as James came home, but it’s nice to know he can still keep secrets. The experiment worked, but the process was sabotaged and an enemy agent killed the scientist behind it before we could get to a second trial. All of the serum was used on Steve, and Dr. Erskine wasn’t particularly fond of writing down his formulas until he was sure they would work. The project was benched to R&R indefinitely.”

                “So Steve is the only super soldier you may have for a long time,” Natasha smirked.

                “Exactly, so we’d rather not lose him, but you and Mr. Barnes threw a little loop into our equation for keeping him safe- namely, your Russian friends, currently being led astray by S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives,” Phil said. The thing in Natasha’s stomach died, and sent acid rushing up her throat. Swallowing painfully, she leaned back against the tree trunk and ignored the bark pricking into her back.

                “So what, it’s all or nothing for your recruitment quota?”

                “You would be an asset to S.H.I.E.L.D., Mrs. Romanoff, and for once in your life you would be doing some door for the world. Is it so bad for us to give you that chance?”

                “What happens if I say no?”

                “S.H.I.E.L.D. will discretely monitor you for the rest of your life, as well as Steve and James, should you ever change your minds.”

                “And to keep us from falling into enemy hands.”

                “Of course.”

                Natasha bit her lip, a tell she had only begun to develop once she was a free woman and hadn’t cared enough about to get rid of, yet.

                S.H.I.E.L.D. sounded better than the Red Room already, and having the choice was something that mattered to Natasha more than she let on. Still, something felt wrong about Phil giving her so much information so easily, and while she could handle disappearing from a tail, the idea of James and Steve and even Sam under surveillance made her skin crawl. If they went to Steve with this opportunity, he would say yes in a heartbeat.

                If Steve said yes, James would follow him.

                If James-

                _Shit._

“What happens if I say yes?” she asked carefully. Phil smiled, and Natasha was disconcerted to find it genuine.

                “You pick a convenient time for a tour, we give you the basics, and put you in training.”

                “Am I the only one you’ve spoken to so far?”

                For the first time in their conversation, Phil didn’t give her an answer right away. Natasha’s ears began to ring.

                “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, as it might affect your decision. You would be a great asset, Mrs. Romanoff.”

                _You would be a great asset._

Not great enough, it seemed, because she couldn’t even tell if he had already consulted James and Steve. She zipped up her jacket, shoved her hands into its pockets, and started away from Phil.

                “I’ll be here every morning if you change your mind!” Phil called after her, but by that time, she was already running.

 

When she got back to the apartment, all plans to pack her bags and leave- _forgetJamesforgetJames_ \- flew out of her head, because Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, whole body angled towards the door. His face was grim, and it was such a foreign expression that for a moment Natasha couldn’t even step through the doorway.

"Does he know?" Steve asked, eyes somehow grave and sympathetic all at the same time and it made Natasha burn. Of course he knew, _of course_. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. would go to Steve first to get to James to get to her.

But still, if they had told Steve about her past, why hadn’t he locked the apartment door and told James not to come home? Why wasn’t he telling her to leave this instant? How was Steve so _good_? It was no wonder James had never fallen apart, with such a friend always beside him. Natasha wondered how her life could have changed if she had had someone like that in the Red Room.

"Yes," she said, setting her keys on the wall hook. "Not the specifics, but... He knows what I was, and who I worked for, and that I've done horrible things."

Steve let out a breath.

"Good- that makes this conversation at lot easier then," he smiled, and Natasha was thrown for another loop.

“Makes what easier?”

Steve ignored her and started talking, as though this was a friendly conversation and not a deadly dance around the truth. Maybe for him it was.

“Normally Bucky was the one looking out for me, worrying like a mother hen, but then he shipped out and... He wasn't Bucky when he came back. Adjusting to missing a limb was hard enough, but there were support group meetings and getting used to civilian life and I can't tell you how many panic attacks I had to talk him out of, how many times I stayed home because I was scared of what he would do if I left," Steve said. “When he got the opportunity to go to St. Petersburg, I thought it was finally a chance for some good to happen.”

Natasha pursed her lips, looking down at her hands and wondering if she could ever point at herself while they held a gun. There had never been a point in her life when she had considered killing herself, even though she knew her crimes were too great to warrant any less than death. What kind of person did that make her?

_"You're a survivor,"_ her instructors had told her, over and over.

A survivor.

"I know he's not weak, but he isn't who he used to be and if-“

“I get it,” she said, looking up from her hands and hoping she could muster a sincere expression for once in her life. “You’re worried about him now that you know what I’ve done and who’s looking for me, but I swear… I’m the last person in the world you’ll ever have to worry about hurting him.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair.

                “Good. I’m sorry, but when Coulson told me… I couldn’t believe it for a minute, but then I started thinking and…”

                “It was all about him,” Natasha murmured. Steve nodded. “I take it this information came _after_ you were asked to join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

                Steve gave her a sharp look. “Yes…”

                “He was waiting for me on my morning run. I got the same offer.”

                “What did you say?”

                “That depends,” Natasha said, and Steve instantly looked wary. It was a bad look.

                “On what?”

                “On what you did.”

 

She called James at Sam’s and told him they would have to cancel their date the next morning, and he let out a breathy sigh that crackled through the receiver set against her ear.

                “Am I allowed to know why?”

                Natasha bowed her head, fingers squeezing the phone. James was always careful with her secrets, but he knew he didn’t know everything- it was ok because even if she had secrets, he knew they existed, and he knew she would trust him if and when she was ready. The past few weeks had been a careful give and take on that front as James adjusted to being home again and Natasha grew used to having a home.

                Having people to come back to who cared about her and asked her to help make dinner, who laughed at her Netflix choices and asked to paint her. It was so… domestic. It was so peaceful.

                Well, not peaceful in that when James and Steve were battling on Mario Kart they cussed enough to put the Navy to shame, or that Sam teased James every time he and Natasha went to the studio to dance. It was wild because as much as Steve and James loved each other, they could be absolute children when showing it, and for all his calm Sam had only added to the intensity of their movie nights and video game debates.

                But it was _home._

And now all the secrets would tear her apart again.

                But it wasn’t her place to tell James what Steve had said.

                “If you don’t know already, you will soon enough. I’m sorry,” she murmured.

                “I’ll be home soon. Love you,” James said. Then the line went dead.

                _Love you._

He already knew, then.

                After clicking her phone off Natasha settled onto the couch next to Steve, and couldn’t help the small ripple of surprise when he didn’t move away from her.

                _Of course_ rattled around in her head again, because she shouldn’t have expected anything else from Steve. He gets signed up for a secret government program and tells his best friend the first night he’s home. He discovers that his best friend’s girlfriend used to be an assassin for the most morally reprehensible organization in the intelligence community and his first instinct is to make sure _she won’t break his heart._ Not that she won’t kill him, or kill Steve, or rejoin the Red Room on a covert mission to bring down his government, but that she won’t use James and break him.

                She let her head flop back onto the cushions, eyes zoning out as they took in the off-white of the ceiling. Beside her Steve had taken out his sketchpad, and silence consumed them for all the time it took Natasha to succumb to the urge to look over at what he was doing. Several weeks with three American men had slowly but surely eroded the self-control the Red Room had given her, and the Bolshoi had enforced. It was at once a liberating and terrifying thing.

                As terrifying as hearing Steve snap “Don’t move!” when she turned her head. On impulse she froze in her earlier position, eyes straining to see past their capability, but all she got was the fuzzy outline of Steve’s body angled towards her, a white square on one knee.

                “Sorry,” he murmured after a moment. “I don’t want to lose the light on your face.”

                “Oh,” Natasha huffed. She swallowed.

                After a few more scratched, Steve sighed, and out of the corner of her eye Natasha saw him set his sketchpad aside.

                “Is being an artist really such a bad thing?” Natasha murmured, looking over at him. “You have your health now, you have your skill, friends, a home, school… a few years ago, I wouldn’t have even been able to comprehend those ideas, let alone be cognizant enough to know I should want them.”

                “I know it’s selfish of me,” Steve said. “To want to throw away everything I have, when lots of other people have nothing, but I can’t just sit here with my good life knowing that happens to guys who won’t ignore all the bad in the world. After seeing what happened to Bucky.”

                That stilled Natasha, because she knew what he was talking about. At least, from another perspective, she did. Natalia would have taken one look at James and run far, far away from the war that took his limb, his dignity, and very nearly his life. She would have hidden in her fox hole until the whole thing blew over.

                Natasha… well, she supposed she already knew what Natasha would do. But it wasn’t because she felt sorry for James.

                It was because she couldn’t stand to leave him. And would hold on to this new life she had with tooth and nail, defend it until her heart burst and her body was dragged off the field. She would not go back.

                “S.H.I.E.L.D. showed me that the war is still going on, and even if art makes me happy…”

                “It would kill you to sit still,” Natasha finished. Their eyes met, and each was burning, but they only added fuel to each other’s fires. “What will you tell James?”

                “The truth, but this is his decision to make, assuming Coulson approached him,” Steve said.

                They both knew it was a lie; where Steve went, James followed, and if Steve said yes to S.H.I.E.L.D., that would be no exception. They went in together, or not at all.

                Natasha wondered how long Steve would feel guilty about that.  

                Before either of them could say anything else, though, there was a knock on the door and James and Sam were bursting through with grocery bags. Bucky’s recently cut hair was shaggy and dotted with rain, like their respective jackets, water sluicing down the plastic bags filled with what looked like Ben&Jerry’s and peanut M&Ms.

                “Hey, guys!” James grinned. “Just put the bags on the table, Sam.”

                “You got it, man,” Sam said, heading into the kitchen.

                James crossed over the room and kissed Natasha before he was even fully on the sofa, coming to fall between her and Steve with an _oof_ as the cushions sank beneath him.

                “I told you to lay of the caramel creams, Buck,” Steve said seriously.

                “It’s the arm, Steve, I told you! The thing weighs a ton!”

                “Or nothing. I think you have a caramel problem,” Steve insisted. “Nat, help me talk some sense into him.”

                “Maybe it _is_ time to come clean, James,” Natasha said, poking his metal limb affectionately, but that was before she realized what she had said. In the kitchen, Sam froze, and looked back into the living room. He, as well as the others, seemed keenly away of the suddenly frigid and abrupt silence that had fallen over them.

                “Oh, _damn_ ,” Natasha muttered, sinking back down away from James.

                “Did someone just die?” Sam asked, looking from face to face. “If tonight’s a bad night for _Terminator II_ , I’m totally open to rescheduling.”

                “It’s not that, Sam, it’s just…” Steve sighed, leaning forward and running a hand through his hair.

                “It’s just time to come clean,” Bucky murmured. He didn’t look at Natasha.

 

That night, they ordered pizza and had more honest conversation than they’d had since James and Natasha stepped off the escalator at the airport what seemed like an eternity ago. Sam promised that if any secret agents showed up on his doorstep, he’d fight them off with a broom before they could brainwash him.

                It was a funny picture, but it didn’t make the reality any less real. Steve had chosen war, and Natasha and James were going to follow him.

 

That night she turned over in bed, head pillowed on one arm and the other reaching out to lay against James’ chest. Here beneath the covers it was warm, warm, practically toasty, unlike frigid Russian nights, mornings, lives. Or maybe it was just her- in the Kirov many of her co-workers had loved their Motherland and her rugged beauty and had even found heat there, sometimes. But never Natasha.

                Regardless, here it was like someone had lit a spark in her bones, and joking with Steve and Sam, lying next to James, watching Steve do homework for his art classes, going to Sam’s VA meetings, even getting a job at the local coffee shop Avenging Mocha, was… it was fuel enough for a firestorm.

                She squeezed her eyes shut and murmured her lover’s name while she fell asleep, knowing that the life she had almost had- the _normal_ life- would all be forfeit the moment she entered S.H.I.E.L.D. Then her fingers twitched and she realized that dancing and coffee shops never would have been enough, even with James.

                Tomorrow, her new life would begin, and she couldn’t w _ait._

 

After the initial tour of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York headquarters beneath Times Square, the three of them were brought to a massive gym outfitted with a firing range, gymnastics mats, balance beams, a boxing ring, and even a hire wire, and several agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. regulation sweats working out. Only a few bothered to look over at the trainees, but one blonde woman in particular paused her shooting long enough to watch Steve pass with a look that Natasha didn’t begrudge her- Steve still wasn’t used to being handsome, so he didn’t notice it, but Natasha had seen pictures of him when he was small and even then he hadn’t exactly been the most unattractive man on the block.

                At the far end of the gym, by the boxing ring, were three agents in full uniform. An Asian woman with sharp features and immaculate makeup, a tall, slender brunette with her hair in a strict bun and only a hint of eyeshadow, and a short, sandy-haired man with several Band-Aids stuck to his hands and a massive 7-11 mug of coffee. Both of the woman had military posture. The man was practically asleep.

                “Natasha, Steve, Bucky,” Agent Phil Coulson said. “Meet your Supervising Officers. This is Agent Melinda May, Agent Maria Hill, and Agent Clint Barton.”

                Each of the agents nodded when he said their name, except Barton. He took another sip of coffee and let his glazed eyes attempt to take them in. Somehow, Natasha doubted he was fully functional, even though it was already 7 in the morning.

                “Steve, Agent Hill will be your SO. Bucky, you’re with Agent May. Natasha-”

                “I’m with Barton, got it,” she said quickly, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

                “Good luck,” Coulson said. Then he disappeared- as he was wont to do- and the three probationary agents were left alone with their SO’s.

                Immediately Steve approached Maria with a murmured “Agent,” and she returned it with, “Rogers.” They walked off together, him always two paces behind. Natasha and James both looked at their So’s, shared a glance, and James shrugged. Natasha returned the sentiment, but before they could each approach, May stepped towards James.

                “You’re a veteran?” she asked, and her voice was just as cold as she looked, with a timbre and tone that seemed to defy being identified by age.

                James nodded, and crossed his arms conspicuously, so there was no way for her to miss his metal hand. She simply smiled.

                “I respect that, but you’re also a probationary agent now, and whatever skills you learned in the army, you will forget until I tell you to remember them,” she said. Even Natasha wouldn’t have argued with her, and had to hide the small ember of respect that no doubt surfaced in her eyes. “Follow me.”

                They departed, James throwing one last glance at Natasha before they exited the gym. Leaving her and Agent Barton, who… was actually asleep. Standing up.

                Natasha scowled. As thrilling as it was to find real people rather than mindless robots behind this intelligence agency, an agent sleeping on the job was something that was fundamentally wrong in her universe.

                “Agent Barton-”

                Barton snapped to attention, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his mug, and blinked wearily at her. He took another sip.

                “Call me Clint- Agent Barton is a mouthful,” he slurred.

                “Are we going to go, Clint?” Natasha asked, crossing her arms and rolling back on one ankle. Clint shook his head, banged it a few times with his hand, rubbed his eyes. It was like watching a five year-old wake up too early, still disoriented and not quite sure which way is up.

                “Go? Why would we go?”

                The question caught her off guard, and she narrowed her eyes, saying nothing.

                “Nah, May likes to intimidate her probies, and Maria’s all business so she’ll probably have Rogers on kitchen duty for a week just so he can learn to appreciate ‘discipline,’” Clint snorted, shaking his head. “I prefer the more painful approach.”

                Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Painful?”

                “Well, ‘direct’ is a better word. It’ll only be painful for one of us.” And then, with surprising agility for someone holding a hot beverage and who had previously been sleeping standing up, Clint wormed his way backwards into the boxing ring until he was leaning against the ropes.

                “What did you have in mind?” Natasha asked cautiously. Clearly there was more to this man than meets the eye- Coulson trusted him with her, and he _was_ an agent.

                “I want you to beat me up,” Clint said. Natasha’s focus snapped back to him in an instant. “Or, I want you to _try_.”

                The first thing she would do, she promised herself as she entered the ring, would be to break his coffee mug. 

 

Clint Barton, aka “Hawkeye,” was actually more competent than he let anyone know, despite relying on hearing aids and barely being conscious before noon most days. When he wasn’t literally hanging from the rafters that earned him his nickname, he was practicing with his primary weapon, the one that he had been using since day one with astounding success: a bow and arrows. Of course, any respect this should have gotten him was lost on James, who thought it was much funnier to “Hawkguy” instead of his alias or his name, especially to his face.

                In truth, though, Clint was more of a supervisor than a teacher, considering that Natasha’s skillset already surpassed that of the majority of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. He helped teach her to temper some of the brutality the Red Room instilled in her- S.H.I.E.L.D., the majority of the time, needed its targets alive- and to learn to take her new job with not just grace, but humor. It was inspiring to see that a human disaster who couldn’t function without at least a quart of coffee in his bloodstream and frequently got side-tracked on missions to save kittens in trees or take strays out of the rain was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s biggest assets.

                It helped that his circus background meant he picked up ballet easily, and could spar with her on equal footing when James was off with his own trainer, Agent May. Aka “The Cavalry,” a S.H.I.E.L.D. legend who had earned her nickname on the battlefield, rather than through strange, birdlike habits. May’s almond-shaped eyes and dark hair lent her the air of a big cat constantly stalking its prey, and her rigid discipline made her the perfect mentor for James, whose whole technique in the army had required that he stay as far from hand-to-hand combat as possible. His dance background and occasional bouts with Natasha meant he picked up May’s martial skills easily and after much training. Rigorous, sweaty, bloody training that had him so exhausted he collapsed into his bunk at the end of the day rather than stay up and talk with Steve, whose serum meant he was almost never exhausted, and Natasha, who hadn’t broken a sweat in at least three years because of something as simple as a workout.

                Still, bandages around James’ knuckles and feet became normal with relentless May as his SO. As did yoga at 5 in the morning, and breathing exercises, and at one point a whole stock of herbal tea appeared in the apartment. James didn’t wake Natasha up about nightmares once after that, and it took everything in Natasha not to thank May outright for helping James so much. One of the newer agents had told Natasha and James over dinner in the mess hall that May really was nicer than she let on, and each time Natasha happened to pass while they were sparing or May was teaching him how to control his bionic arm, she started to believe it a little more.  

                As for Steve… well, Agent Hill was no walk in the park, either, and she did her damnest to test Steve’s serum-enhanced abilities to their limits, without May’s secret kindnesses or Clint’s complete lack of conventionality. Runs before the sun was up, sparring until Steve had perfected every hand-to-hand move she showed him, target practice until he could shoot with his eyes closed. Steve barely had time to eat and sleep, but thanks to the serum and his sheer determination he did all of it, learned, and even kept time to sketch here and there.

                Slowly but surely, the S.H.I.E.L.D. base started to feel like home, until it was almost reflex to sleep there rather than in their apartment in Brooklyn.

 

“Hey, Captain!” A female agent called from across the mess. Skye, Natasha remembered. She had become a full-fledged field agent around the time Natasha, James, and Steve had joined S.H.I.E.L.D., and although she denied it Natasha knew for a fact that she was the one behind Steve’s new nickname.

                “I told you, I wasn’t even in the military!” Steve said when she walked over with her own tray.

                “Mhm, that’s really not the point, Cap,” Skye said. James snorted next to her, and she shot him a grin. “Well, since _he’s_ not feeling so up to it, how goes training, Winter?”

                James pushed his potatoes around on his tray and briefly let his gaze wander around the room before zeroing in on another approaching figure.

                “Fine… until now,” he growled, stabbing the potatoes vindictively as Agent Ward approached.

                “If it isn’t Captain America and Winter Princess!” Ward exclaimed, sitting down next to Skye and grinning at Steve and James. Natasha just ate a mouthful of Jell-O and waited.

                “It’s _Soldier_ ,” James growled, and his eyes could have killed a man smart enough to see the danger. Unfortunately, Ward was arrogant enough to see _and_ ignore it.

                The nickname had first caught on when a few curious agents looked up James’ file and found the name of his audition piece for the Kirov. More significant than the name was the fact that James had been an honest-to-God ballerina; that he was a great one didn’t matter, because suddenly he was no longer a veteran with a cybernetic arm, but a _ballerina_. Whoever first decided to call him “Winter Soldier” still hadn’t fessed up to it, and for the first few uses it had, admittedly, made James much less terrifying, knowing that the name was from a dance and not a literal interpretation of his skills, which were still considerable.

                Then word circulated of what that cybernetic arm was capable of doing, and the lengths to which May was pushing him, and one stare from James was enough to shut up any laughter from the peanut gallery. No longer symbolic of ballet, Winter Soldier was the name of a ruthless assassin, and it had been weeks since someone dared to use it as an insult rather than with a tone of hushed respect. Clint was the only one who could still use it with humor, because James still insisted on calling him Hawkguy.

                “I’m sorry, America, your boyfriend said something,” Ward said, turning to Steve, who’s cheeks were no longer red from Skye’s playful teasing.

 Instead, the color had leeched from his face, and he looked like he wanted to throttle Ward. Luckily for all of them, Steve was almost as level-headed as they came. It was why he hadn’t fought too hard against the “America” part of his nickname, given out of affection by the techs who administered the super soldier serum and had witnessed firsthand Steve’s good character. Naming him after a country was only one part satire, and no one really knew how “Captain” got latched onto it. Probably just out of the air of respect he commanded upon entering a room, despite not even being an agent yet. His biggest opposition so far had been that he hadn’t technically earned the rank of “Captain,” but everyone kept using it anyway.

“Actually, he’s _my_ boyfriend,” Natasha said with a deadly smile, leaning over the table and practically daring Ward to take a stab at her. There was nothing humorous about the name she had earned- or rather, the name that followed her.

Assassin, ballerina, agent- titles didn’t matter, because she would always be the Black Widow, and people would always have heard of her. Clint thought it was funny, but for Natasha the important thing was that it sent a message to the Red Room and any other interested parties. She was no longer theirs to command, and neither was that name.

“Seriously, Ward, lay off,” Skye murmured, nudging his shoulder. “And have some respect- Bucky really was a soldier, and that’s more than you can say.”

Ward said nothing else. Instead, he gave Skye an enigmatic look before getting up and heading to a different table, having clearly given up the battle as lost.

“He likes you,” Natasha said as she leaned back. Skye was still following Ward, eyeing his figure appreciatively, but ultimately turned back to the three.

                “Yeah… I liked him for a little while, not gonna lie it’s why I wanted him to be my SO, but he’s a bit of a jerk, honestly. Too James Bond solo-act,” Skye said thoughtfully, and Natasha gave her an appraising look.

                “Pretty _and_ smart,” she smiled, and Skye blinked.

                “Uh, you’re talking about Steve, right?” Skye said, and Natasha laughed.

                “You underestimate yourself, Skye,” Natasha said, and she meant it. The Agent had been friendly since day one, hadn’t been ashamed to be caught admiring Steve’s physique- or Natasha’s, until it became clear that she was spoken for- and had even taught James a few tricks for seeing past May’s ice-queen persona.

                “No, I think I know myself pretty well,” the agent said. Then something across the seething cafeteria caught her eye and she waved over Tripp- another agent who’d showed Natasha, James, and Steve the S.H.I.E.L.D. ropes. “Tripp, come tell them I’m nothing special.”

                “The Black Widow thinks you’re special? I think you should just take the compliment,” the darker man said, sliding down with a smile although he didn’t have a tray. Steve gave him a pointed look, and Tripp shrugged.

                “I’m on my way to a briefing, but figured I’d snag a snack for the ride. Rumor has it I’m going east,” he said. Natasha froze suddenly, and James hand shot to clasp hers beneath the table.

                “East?” she said casually, as though it didn’t feel like being stuck with a Taser.

                “Something about a boogeyman Russian intelligence agency stirring up trouble,” Tripp explained. “Real hush-hush. I’d say more, but…”

                “We’re still on probation, I get it,” Steve said. He still hadn’t gotten Natasha’s whole story- even James hadn’t- but he knew the basics, knew that part of her motivation for joining S.H.I.E.L.D. was because it would keep the Red Room from thinking they could reclaim her. What he didn’t know was that she had also done it to keep him and James out of trouble. With S.H.I.E.L.D. watching them, they couldn’t be safer.

                “Ah, don’t worry. At the rate you guys are going you’ll be agents in no time. You already came in with half the skills and double the guts,” Tripp said. “I probably should go, though- Hill’s a stickler for schedules.”

                “Good luck!” Skye said. Tripp got up and jogged away, snagging an apple from Ward’s tray as she went. Their table erupted into silent laughter, and the fire in Natasha’s bones grew.

The Red Room could come, and come, but she was done running.

 

When she was a little girl, scientists had taken out her brain and put something else in, had played with her memories like toys, devoured her heart like chocolate cake. For an eternity she had been a puppet consigned to dance only when told, and what, and where, and her costume had been red and red.

                But the music that wound around her was cool and white and blue, like the snow falling outside the windows of the studio she had rented for the day. James would stop by later after his yoga session with May and they would dance. Not because they had a show, or needed the money, but because they wanted to.

                They would never dance professionally again, unless it was for an undercover job. Natasha lifted herself _en pointe_ and felt satisfaction like the burn in her toes. Soon she would feel James arms around her, lifting, spinning, see the shine of sweat on his brow and probably kiss him, more than once, despite Coulson’s repeated warnings about them being discrete.

                She would never hide again. She was the Black Widow, and she could kill a man six different ways and still land a perfect arabesque.

                She would never run again.

 [PS1]Disclaimer: my knowledge of ballet is limited to a few documentaries, classes when I was little, and use of the NY Ballet’s workout routine for a few months. Also, the internet, but I’m taking incredible artistic liberties with Russia’s Kirov (now simply Mariinsky) ballet troupe and also with the actual rules of ballet troupes, so basically don’t take anything in this fic for fact and if you’re an actual ballerina, I apologize.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love your thoughts! Please comment below!


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